i seek something more, something elusive, like silver sand. now I think I found it, and there, its gone again.

sunny days

Its the city of contrasts. As unashamdely contradictory as myself. Maybe thats why felt at home, right the first moment I stepped foot in it.

Is that strange? I used to think it bizzare. A new city, across the continents. One I knew nothing of, inspite of the stories and pictures I had seen and heard before I came here. But I still remember my first day in Edinburgh. I knew I was here for a few months. I knew it was not my kind of city, anyway. But weirdly, I felt at home as soon as I stepped in Princes Street.

There is a castle in the front yard of the city. You can stand on the sidewalk and look down at lucky people soaking the sun in the Princes Gradens below. Its a strange day. Sunny, but cool in the shade. Edinburgh style.

In my dreams, I am at the beach. It's late. I normally dont like noises at night, but here, I like like everything. Everything becomes beautiful because it 'belongs to here'.

Can you describe a texture in words. How does the sand feel between my toes and under my hands? It fine grained and damp in places, and sandpaper soft in places. But it's not the depth of the water, or the softness of the sand (though it helps) its the solitude I love here. The gulls and runners go home as the day leaves the the sky like a fading blush. Me and the big manor house are left alone on the shore to greet the moon. The silver of the moon reflected on the little egdes of water are like a childs laughter. Clean and Pure. I am arrested, floating above lethe. I dont want to lose a moment, or forget. The silence is intense, the night tries to hold one solemn moment before it breaks into the exuberant morning.

There are those moments when we are transported. It's strange how real a dream can feel. Can knock the living daylights out of reality. Coming back, first life seems bizzarely unreal!

There's a long haired boy sitting with a guitar and girl on the grass smiling up at him. Sometimes, you catch a stab of envy for careless youth that slips out before your everconscious conscience snakes out and grabs it.

I dream of a moment like that. But maybe we are too old to be able to live and lose ourselves in moments any more. You dont even window shop without checking warranties. Or maybe not being able to live or lose yourself in a moment is the self defense of those who feel too intensely; or are too chicken? Courage is not the absence of fear, but trying to overcome it.

It might sound strange to you, but I get cheap thrills everytime I manage a clever subterfuge. However trivial and small. When I hold a calm front when I am mad inside. Or laugh when I'm hurting. It feels good. I feel cool. I'm a fool (who makes his world a little safer).